


feel you in my bones again

by ag_sasami



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ag_sasami/pseuds/ag_sasami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For two hours he has stood in the dark in his civvies feeling naked without the mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	feel you in my bones again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tealgeezus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tealgeezus).



> Continuity is a bit hand-wavey, but it’s mostly current at the point right before the reboot.  
> 

To his credit, Bruce is deceptively calm when he comes to stand next to Jason at the window. _‘How did you get in here?_ ’ he doesn’t say, but Jason sees it on his face all the same. “You’re not wearing a mask,” he states plainly instead.

“I wanted to see you,” Jason counters as though the statement never happened, like it wasn’t meant to be a question and answering it all the same. For two hours he has stood in the dark in his civvies feeling naked without his mask. Not Robin. Not Red Hood. _Jason_ , and he’s a little drunk still and doesn’t feel like playing tonight.

Bruce’s hair is slicked back and damp and Jason imagines an expanse of clean skin beneath the robe. If Jason is being honest with himself, he’d say he’s not even sure why he’s here. He doesn’t feel prepared to offer any sort of forgiveness and he isn’t after sympathy. He isn’t even sure he wants a damn apology. It’s just that the whisky burned his throat and seeing Bruce seemed like a fantastic idea through the liquor haze.

“It’s only been two d—” And the fact that he _doesn’t_ get it is so infuriatingly Bruce.

“No.” It’s a growl and the tension snaked between them is palpable. Jason takes the time to close his eyes tight enough to see stars; to breathe twice and calm his voice and nerves. “No. _You_ , Bruce. Not the goddamn Batman.” The tension held in Bruce’s shoulders bleeds out of him. For the briefest of moments his mask of forced ambivalence and false calm is in absolute disarray. Jason thinks _stricken_ might be the right word, but the mask is back before he can be sure.

 _‘I’m not wearing one. Why are you?’_ He wants to scream.

More than that though, he just _wants_. Because he is tired of years of fighting just to get a blank stare or the hard line of a mouth—the only piece of expression not hidden behind the cowl—he turns and steps into Bruce’s space instead. It isn’t a subtle gesture, and it isn’t smooth. Jason finds himself wishing Bruce was in a tie, because it would feel so much less awkward to pull him in by the throat instead of crowding him against the cool window pane. Arms bracketing hips, blue eyes wide and heated. Jason could have sworn this wasn’t the reason he came here tonight, but Bruce’s mouth is crushed against his own and he can’t be sure of any of his motives right now.

Open mouth, tongue running across Jason’s lips and slick behind his teeth.

Receptive. Seeking rather than reactive. Completely unlike before, when Bruce would sit by, impassive, and let Jason bleed out his lust until it turned to infuriated frustration. Now it’s a hand rucking his shirt up and a thigh pressed between his legs; Bruce’s fingers tangled in his hair like this was all his idea. Jason bites down and sucks hard at the joining of his neck and shoulder, rolling his hips and pulling a hiss out of him. Nothing about his touch is cautious or careful. Against him Bruce is hot and hard and Jason is spreading his hands broad across Bruce’s chest, nails scraping rough over skin. It’s the only place he can reach to part the robe because he can’t get to its belt when they’re pinned together like this.

For months, he hasn’t touched a damn person if it wasn’t to maim or kill, and it’s been years before that since anyone felt close to right. Here though, here feels like coming home in a way that actually living here never did. Teeth and nails and Bruce arching into him. Hot friction with precious little between them but Bruce’s robe and Jason’s pants. Still, the separation feels monumental. Apparently for both of them because Bruce is tugging the edges of his shirt up over his head and pushing him backward until his knees hit the bed. Pushing him down and crawling on top of him, working open his pants and tugging them down over his hips.

Jason has his mouth on every inch of skin he can reach. Curling his fingers in the thick fabric of Bruce’s robe he uses it as leverage to drag their bodies together. And Jason ruts up against him, desperate with Bruce’s ragged breathing hot against his ear. And he’s shifting up and away, a loss Jason is about to protest when a thigh is pushed up tight between his legs. Pressure and a haze of half thoughts and too much sensation. He feels fourteen again, except this time Bruce’s hand is on him. Tight fingers, callused and rough, wrapped around his dick and—oh god—Bruce is jerking him in long strokes just shy of too slow. In his head there is only the rush of his own blood and _moremoremore_ and need overwhelming want.

Jason wants to tell him _faster_. He wants to ask _why_.

“Bruce.” His voice comes out wrecked and breathless and it’s the only thing he can manage, the only word that’s passed between them. He doesn’t begin to understand Bruce’s enthusiastic involvement now of all times; now instead of any other time before. But he can’t even think to form a question, can barely speak at all. All he can muster is the impulse to get closer and to sit up just enough. Enough to push the stupid robe off of Bruce’s shoulders; to pull him down into another kiss, teeth digging into lips.

It’s better like that, but the rhythm is still too slow. Not enough. He’s fumbling with his hands and moaning against the heat of Bruce’s mouth and Jason is taking them both in his hand, Bruce’s fingers tangling with his own. He urges them on faster. Harder. Sweat slick and desperate and when he comes it’s with his back arched, pressed into Bruce, hand stuttering through his orgasm and he can’t close his eyes. Bruce’s hand keeps moving, hard and fast over sensitive skin until he comes too. And Jason still can’t shut his eyes, can’t stop the moan in his throat. He thinks his feet may have gone to sleep from the rush of blood out of his limbs. 

Bruce rolls off, panting, to lay beside Jason on the bed. For a long stretch they lay in silence as their breathing levels out and sweat cools on skin. Still, it’s too much to process, Jason’s brain on overload and short circuited from an orgasm he’s been after for half his life. He strings together a thought to leave, but as he starts to move away Bruce clamps his hand down over his wrist. Whatever half-aware expectations he may have formed, this was definitely not something on his admittedly short list of possible outcomes.

“Stay.” It’s not a command and not quite a request either. He continues to move away, but Bruce says “ _Jason_ ,” low and with something like reverence.

And he doesn’t think he has the willpower to leave that behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [magebird](http://magebird.tumblr.com) for helpful comments and [withoutmaps](http://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutmaps/pseuds/withoutmaps) for being my porn guru.
> 
> [Now with bonus song!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MNVVCT5WgWA) (Relevant song is relevant.)
> 
>   
> 


End file.
